Go. Wash. See.

Hello my friends! 

My senior year of seminary is flying by so far. (Since when is it almost October?!) One of the graduation requirements here at CTS is senior chapel week. This involves planning a week's worth of our daily chapel services with two or three other seniors. I have officially finished my senior chapel week! It was rather hectic, but the seminary nerd in me really enjoyed the worship planning. My team settled on this theme for the week...

(...and of course a doodle had to be involved.)

God calls us out -- names us and calls us out of the box (or out of the pulpit?), out of our comfort zones. We're called out to make a joyful noise, and to listen for the ways in which God names us. We're called out for such a time as this. 

So Monday's chapel service was my turn for the sermon. And we got our hands dirty! I'm grateful to be living, learning, and worshiping in a place where I can tell people to come forward and put their hands in mud...and they actually do it. 

Here's my mini sermon, in case it suits your fancy to read...

First things first: John 9: 1-11. 

As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. ²His disciples asked him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ ³Jesus answered, ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. ⁴Wemust work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. ⁵As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.’ ⁶When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, ⁷saying to him, ‘Go, wash in the pool of Siloam’ (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see. ⁸The neighbours and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, ‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’ ⁹Some were saying, ‘It is he.’ Others were saying, ‘No, but it is someone like him.’ He kept saying, ‘I am the man.’ ¹⁰But they kept asking him, ‘Then how were your eyes opened?’ ¹¹He answered, ‘The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, “Go to Siloam and wash.” Then I went and washed and received my sight.’ 

****

Imagine, for a just a minute, that you’re the blind man in this story. 

You’ve been blind from birth. On one particular day you’re sitting near a dusty road, the late summer sun heating your skin. You’re surrounded by noise -- the clopping of hooves as animals pull carts, the voices of merchants selling their wares, the shuffling of feet as people walk by. Through all of this hustle and bustle you hear a group of men talking. You can tell they’re a little ways off, because you have to concentrate to hear their voices through the crowd. You hear one of them ask: “Who sinned?” “Neither this man nor his parents...” another answers. As the sound of their footsteps gets closer and the air shifts around you, you realize they’re walking your way. Were they talking about you? They must have been -- you can feel them standing close to you now. They haven’t spoken to you yet, but you hear one of them spit on the ground. Hm... 

Moments later you hear a faint rustle as someone picks up a handful of the same earth you’re standing on. Before you know it this spit-and-dust mud is being smeared across your eyes. This is weird. Everyone in town knows you’re blind -- you figure they can probably barely bring themselves to look at your eyes, nonetheless touch them. But something about this hand -- this mud -- stops you from pulling away. As the cool mud drips down your cheeks, you feel a hand on your shoulder and hear your next instructions. “Go. Wash. See.” You make your way to the pool and begin washing your face. As the wet dust clears away, you open your eyes, and truly see, for the first time. 

Honestly I don’t really know how I would react if I was the blind person in this story. I imagine, in a literal sense, he was in a fairly familiar environment. But on this day he has a very unfamiliar experience. One minute he’s having a pretty average day, the next minute someone is putting mud on his eyes, and the next minute his life is completely changed. I’ll venture a guess that it was a pretty uncomfortable experience to take that chance. To stand still and accept that gift. But that unconventional care led to a life-changing new perspective. 

The mud is my favorite part of this story. Dirt and spit. Not spring water and healing ointment. Not a cleansing dip in a river. Jesus puts mud on this man’s face to heal his blindness. It’s not some kind of far-removed, sanitized caregiving. It’s personal. It’s unexpected. It’s messy. 

And Jesus uses his own saliva to heal the blind man. This isn’t the only time he’s used this technique. either. The Gospel of Mark tells us of Jesus putting saliva on another blind man’s eyes, and of Jesus healing a deaf man by licking his fingers and then putting those fingers in the man’s ears! Maybe using saliva was Jesus’ way of being resourceful and working with what he had. Or maybe it was Jesus being so wholly invested in his ministry that he was willing to physically give part of himself to the one he was healing. When it comes to our ministries, there’s something to be said, of course, for self care and for not giving our entire selves to our work. We, after all, are not Jesus. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be deeply invested in our callings, whatever they may be. Ministry is personal. It can happen in unexpected ways. And yes, it’s messy.

Then there’s the dirt -- maybe it was closer to sand, or dust, ground into fine powder by a constant stream of moving feet. Whatever it was, it was on the ground and Jesus spat on it and mixed it up. Then he took a pretty bold next step. According to this account we read in John, Jesus hasn’t even directly spoken to the blind man. After answering his disciples’ question, and without so much as a “hey, can I help you?” he takes the mud that’s in his hands and he spreads it on the blind man’s eyes. It’s personal. It’s unexpected. It’s definitely messy. But then again, since when has Jesus done things the conventional way? 

After the mud has been spread, it’s the blind man’s turn again. It is only after he makes a journey to the pool and washes off the mud that he gains his sight. The blind man’s willingness to play a part in his own healing -- his willingness to accept this messy ministry -- might be almost as important as Jesus’ action in the first place. We are just as called to receive this mud on our eyes as we are called to share it with others. We are called to wash the mud from our eyes and see each other -- and the church -- in new ways. Just as Jesus told the blind man: “Go. Wash. See.” 

Like it or not, we’ve got work to do. Just before healing the blind man, Jesus says to his disciples: “We must work the works of him who sent me...” 

We as followers of Christ are called into ministry that is personal, that can be unexpected, and that is, sometimes, is messy.  But just as Jesus tells his disciples, we have to work the works of the one who sent Christ. We have to dig in, without being afraid of getting our hands a little muddy. Jesus calls out his disciples...and us. 

We’re talking, this week, about being called out. God calls us out -- claims us -- as God’s children. And God calls us out -- out of the box, out of the status quo, out of the expected. Unexpected is intimidating. But look at what happened to the blind man who stuck around for this unusual encounter.  

As far as I know, none of us are eye doctors, so I don’t think we’ll be literally restoring sight to the blind any time soon. But by Christ’s example we are called out of our comfort zones, and in to action. Maybe that action is taking a stand against violence or discrimination or practices that harm the environment. Maybe it’s helping create safe space for a difficult conversation in a hurting congregation. Maybe it’s making PB&J sandwiches for people who are hungry in Atlanta. Or maybe our action is that we stay right here and just agree to love each other even when we don’t like each other. Every one of us has a different “unexpected.” I don’t think we can really minister to each other if we’re constantly walking around with a bottle of hand sanitizer, always making sure things are clean and safe and what we’re used to. Whatever our individual callings may be (both here at Columbia and afterwards,) we need some cleansing mud to wash away prejudice, preconceived notions, and even our fear, so we can see each other -- and God -- more clearly. This will be messy. We’re human, after all. It will feel awkward and we probably won’t get it right the first time around. Imagine what could happen if we let ourselves be open to new perspectives on what it means to do church...on what it means to be followers of Christ...on what it means to love people. 

Let’s be real, rubbing mud on people’s faces is pretty weird. But we are called out to dig our hands into holy, healing mud, squish it through our fingers and let it soak into our skin, even at the risk that it will get under our fingernails and stain our clothes. Because as we do that, by God’s grace we’ll begin to see each other -- and God -- in entirely new ways. 

****

Until next time, friends! 

Love,

Allison.

We added something to the Table each day of our week.
Tuesday: Psalm 98. How to you make a joyful noise?

Tree of Life

Hello friends!

After this past Saturday's CTS commencement ceremony, it would appear I'm officially a seminary senior (you know, assuming I passed all of my classes). Some days that is exciting, because I wonder what my next adventure will be. Some days that is very (very) intimidating, because I wonder what my next adventure will be.

Anyway, that's all beside the point. One of the classes I took this past semester was called The Bible and Visual Art. Think art history class through a seminary point of view. We started way back in the day with Greek and Roman sculpture, talking about the different ways in which people portrayed divinity. We looked at imagery in lots and lots of Christian worshiping spaces and elsewhere, from cultures all over the world, and finally got into some modern religious art. It was a kick awesome class. Bonus: at the end of the semester we had the choice between writing a paper, or creating a visual project (and writing an explanation). If you know me well enough to be reading this, you probably know I chose the latter. As usual, I didn't exactly have a 100% plan when I started this art project, but I think the end result was pretty cool.

I liked the idea of trying to bring together the assorted cultures and styles we'd studied, into one single symbol. My brain landed on altar crosses -- the ones that often sit up front in a sanctuary on the Table. And, as usual, my brain also landed on cutting up some recycled stuff, and using images from nature (shocking, I know). So I made a cross out of some cardboard (a feat that ended surprisingly well, given that I don't have near the amount of patience necessary for measuring things), and got to decorating it. Here are some pictures, if it suits your fancy to take a gander. I named this little friend "Tree of Life."

Aztec imagery, courtesy of acrylic paint, some old CDs, and modeling clay made from cornstarch, baking powder, and water. The things on this side of the cross were all symbols important to native Mesoamerican spirituality, and were adapted by missionaries to fit in Christian teachings too. Mirrors represented a connection to a different dimension or world. Corn was a sacred substance, subsequently used to make human forms of Jesus that were hung on ceremonial crosses. The Nahuatl people were also taught to say the equivalent of "tortilla" instead of "bread" in the Lord's Prayer. The sun was also a highly divine image, said to keep the universe functioning through the blood of human sacrifice (the latter of which, as the missionaries taught, could end since Jesus was sacrificed on behalf of everyone once and for all).

Byzantine imagery, brought to you by acrylic paint, puffy fabric paint, and 100% genuine diamonds, rubies, and emeralds (definitely not plastic gems from the craft section of Wal-Mart...). Indicative of the imperialization of Christianity, emperors would send fancy-pants crosses to other religious and political leaders, both displaying their wealth/power and their connection to divinity.

Painted ceiling of old catacombs and churches, à la acrylic paint and watercolor paint. Simple stars indicate the heavens, and the wavy lines denoting the sky are intentionally ambiguous in their similarity to images of water.

Inspired by a church door featuring Old and New Testament images (acrylic, watercolor, and puffy fabric paints). From top to bottom: Genesis 2, Abraham and Isaac, Jonah, the Last Supper, the crucifixion, and the resurrection. 

Allison imagery (Nat Geo magazine clippings and my trusty glue stick). Tree trunk and other wood pictures make up the vertical part, and you'll find leaves and other plants going horizontally. The middle is, apparently, a photo of two galaxies colliding. I liked the idea of this really captivating event that was eye-catching and at the same time mysterious, a little scary, and something that ultimately is way bigger than we could ever understand. I'm talking about the galaxies, but it seemed rather fitting for the middle of a cross, too. 

Water imagery on the cross's base (acrylic paint). It's meant to be on the move -- ripples spreading out from the cross like I hope they are from the Church today. 

...and that's all she wrote! (Actually, it's not. I wrote five pages about this project, but I won't subject you to that.) I'm thankful to be studying in a place that gives me room to explore biblical texts and Christian communities by playing with my art supplies. Now...onward into the summer!

Love,
Allison.

On Foot Washing

Hey friends!

As usual, lots of ideas are tumbling around in my ol' noggin, but none of them quite manage to make it here. At least some of them have found a rambling state of limbo on the pages of my journal? Anyway.

As lots of you probably have noticed, this week is Holy Week (today we might be in the darkness of Holy Saturday but Easter is coming, y'all). On Maundy Thursday, as many churches do, OPC had a meal and worship service remembering Jesus' last evening with his disciples. The best part about these two things is that they happened simultaneously. We started our meal (of simple things -- bread, cheese, fruit, olives...), and then music, prayer, and reflection happened as we ate. There was also time for foot washing. This simple, complex, uncomfortable, eye-opening act of service is what my short sermon was about. Read more below, if it suits your fancy.

Also you'll probably want to read John 13: 1-17, 31b-35 first.

Love,
Allison.

***

Each year on the Thursday before Easter, Christian worshiping communities around the world gather in remembrance of the last evening Jesus shared with his disciples. On that night Jesus and his disciples ate together, as we do tonight. On that night Jesus washed the disciples’ feet. 

Some of you know of my love for camp and conference ministry. So the first camp where  I worked sits down in a valley in the mountains of North Carolina. I was a counselor there for two summers, and both times, staff training ended the same way. After ten or elevens day of training on everything from canoeing to crafts to CPR, there would be a closing devotion.  At the end of training, before the organized chaos that was our six weeks of summer programming, we read this same Scripture and we washed each others’ feet. Now keep in mind, we were a bunch of camp counselors. Outside. Pretty much all the time. Let’s just say we weren’t exactly getting pedicures every week. But we gathered on the dusty floor of the Pavilion and washed each other’s feet. Some of us had known each other for years. Some of us were brand new to the camp family. None of us knew exactly what would happen over the course of the summer. But we washed each other’s feet, promising to serve not only our future campers, but each other. 

Not all foot washing happens in communities of new friends, or even acquaintances. Room In the Inn is a Nashville, TN-based organization that ministers to the city’s homeless population. Many congregations across the country provide shelter for a night under the same organization’s name, but in Nashville, Room In the Inn has a large day center that provides tons of resources -- everything from a mailing address, to meals, to art classes and other education. Another ministry of Room In the Inn’s day center is their foot clinics. Homeless participants simply sit, as volunteers wash and care for their feet. This care is especially needed, as these homeless people have to spend long hours on their feet, often in ill-fitting donated shoes. The list of foot-related health concerns can be a long one. Room In the Inn’s foot clinic is free. The volunteers doing the washing don’t necessarily know anything about the people whose feet they wash. It’s one stranger willing to wash the feet of another, over and over. 

There are plenty of uncertainties in these two examples. But Jesus knew something as he washed his disciples’ feet that night in the Upper Room. He knew a few somethings.

• “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world”
• “Jesus, knew that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God...” 
• Jesus “knew who was to betray him...”

That last one doesn’t say “Jesus had a hunch that someone might be considering betraying him.” Jesus knew.

And he washed the disciples’ feet anyway. Jesus knew that he was about to face the betrayal that would lead to his death, and that one of his closest companions would be the one to betray him. And still “he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet.” “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” If we want to talk about Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow again -- I’d say this fits into the “wow” category. 

I’d venture a guess that the disciples were pretty confused by Jesus, as we washed their feet. They didn’t yet understand all of the deeply significant things Jesus knew in that moment, but here was their leader, kneeling on the ground, washing their feet. Feet which were no doubt even dustier than those of my fellow camp counselors. They all might’ve wondered if it should’ve been the other way around. Simon Peter definitely wonders this, when he asks Jesus “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” and continues “You will never wash my feet.” There were some things the disciples needed to know, so Jesus gets to explaining. 

He tells Peter “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Jesus washing the disciples’ feet brings them closer to him, and closer to each other as his followers. It’s an intimate act, washing someone’s feet, and maybe the physical closeness it requires is evidence of the internal, spiritual closeness that saturates this act of service.

At this point the meaning of Jesus’ actions has, evidently, begun to sink in with Peter, who pleads “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” And Jesus gets deeper into the significance of his cleansing gesture when he says “servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them.” Everyone stands on equal footing as they experience the self-giving love that Jesus shares with his disciples. At Room In the Inn’s clinic, the occupation or social status of the volunteers and participants doesn’t matter. It is two people seated face to face, one serving the other. 

But even after Jesus’ disciples begin to understand, their work is not done.

I realized recently that I wasn’t sure I had ever heard an actual definition of the word “maundy.” Maundy Thursday is how we and many other Christians refer to this day, when we remember the Last Supper and this washing of feet...but I wasn’t too familiar with what the word actually meant. As it turns out, maundy is usually a noun. It can mean an act of service -- an act of foot washing. It also derives from the word for mandate. Both definitions are pretty fitting for Jesus’ evening in the Upper Room, I think. Jesus hasn’t just washed the disciples’ feet, he has set an example for how they are to treat others. 

Last year, on the first day of one of my seminary classes, the professor was describing some of what we could expect from the course. In addition to lecture time, we’d be preaching in front of the class. Our job as classmates would be to affirm each other, but it would also be to challenge each other, to help one another grow. In describing the kind of community we’d need to be to accomplish this, she said: “You don’t have to like everyone in this room,” our professor said. “But you have to love them.” 

This is not unlike the mandate Peter and his fellow disciples receive from Jesus. They have just begun to understand Jesus’ actions, but now they have to do something about it.  Jesus says “if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet,” and later he continues with a new commandment. He doesn’t just sort of shrug and say “okay everybody, you got it. Now here’s a nice suggestion that you should follow if you’ve got the time.” 

He says “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Maybe the disciples didn’t have to like everyone, but they had to love everyone, and as followers of Christ we, too, are charged with the same task. 

Jean Vanier, a writer and the founder of the L’Arche communities, says this: “To wash the feet of a brother or sister in Christ, to allow someone to wash our feet, is a sign that together we want to follow Jesus, to take the downward path, to find Jesus’ presence in the poor and the weak. Is it not a sign that we too want to live a heart-to-heart relationship with others, to meet them as a person and a friend, and live in communion with them? Is it not a sign that we yearn to be men and women of forgiveness, to be healed and cleansed and to heal and cleanse others and thus to live more fully in communion with Jesus?” 

There’s not one mold for the way we can try to live more fully in this communion. It can happen on a summer camp staff, in a day center for homeless people, in a fellowship hall on Lanier Drive in Atlanta, GA. By nurturing service and love in communities with other people, we can more fully experience our relationship with God. By this everyone will know that we are his disciples, if we have love for one another.

Washing someone’s feet can be uncomfortable. Loving and serving others can be uncomfortable. It requires some vulnerability even at the risk of being betrayed, and an openness to the challenge of living in communion with each other as forgiving and forgiven people. As Good Friday looms we are guaranteed that the path won’t always be easy. But with God’s help, the self- giving love Jesus showed his disciples can become a love we show for each other. 

Amen.

A little watercolor adventure of mine that was in preparation
for OPC's Women's Retreat last month. 

The Waiting Game

Happy New Year, friends! 

Today at OPC we rang in the (liturgical) new year by observing the first Sunday of Advent, and I praught the sermon. Read below, if it suits your fancy! Shout out to Mom and Dad who came to Decatur for the occasion, and fed me lots of good food while they were here. :)

For more Advent reflections from members of the OPC family, keep an eye on the OPC blog. There you'll find new posts each day during the season (these are the electronic versions of a paper devotional book put together by some lovely church members).

Sidenote: This sermon will make a lot more sense if you read the Scripture for the day first. Crack open a Bible (or click this handy dandy link) to Matthew 24: 36-44.

Love,
Allison.

OPC's Advent worship series

The Waiting Game

We wait...for all sorts of things. We wait for the arrival of visitors. We wait for new babies to be born. We wait in Atlanta traffic. We wait for water to boil and grass to grow. We wait on car repairs, loads of laundry, and grades to be returned. We wait to hear back about job offers. We wait to hear if a sick or injured loved one will be okay. We wait for wedding dates, and changes of seasons. 

For many of these events we prepare and prepare. We cook, we fill up the gas tank, we visit the doctor and load up the washing machine. We fill out applications, we study, and we move the cold weather clothes from the back of the closet to the front. We do all the preparations we can but, for many of these things, after that it’s just a waiting game.

We are waiting, here. The changed color of the fabric around our sanctuary even signals that something is different! Something is coming! Maybe the sales and decorations that have inundated just about every store out there are trying to tell us it’s already Christmas. But there is still waiting to do. It’s not here yet.

The part of Matthew that we heard this morning comes toward the end of this Gospel, some time after the birth stories we’re used to hearing around this time of year, It also comes after many of the accounts of Jesus’ earthly ministry. Only a few chapters remain after this text before Matthew’s account of Jesus’ death and resurrection. So why are we reading it now? With this talk about waiting it seems like we’re maybe getting a little ahead of ourselves, to be thinking about a passage that describes something in the later part of Jesus’ ministry. After all...according to the church calendar Jesus hasn’t even been born yet!

But (maybe much to our dismay) waiting is not a one time thing. We have waited in the past, we will wait in the future. We wait right now. This first Sunday of Advent we begin the annual season in which we wait, to celebrate Jesus’ birth. And our text for this morning reminds us that Jesus’ birth was and will be about a whole lot more than a newborn baby in a manger. 

Waiting for Jesus to be born means waiting for everything that Christ came to do. 

There’s a lot of talk about what will be, in this morning’s words from Matthew. “So will be the coming of the Son of Man.” “Two will be in the field.” “One will be taken.” The present tense verbs, on the other hand, are few, and their message is relatively simple. “You do know know.” “Be ready.”

We don’t know when Jesus will return. No one does, according to Matthew, except for God -- “neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son.” So we wait.

And of course, it would be awfully hard for Jesus to return, if he hadn’t been born in the first place. Advent matters. We know the date on which we will celebrate Jesus’ birth. And many of us, I would imagine, have already begun preparations and decorations for that occasion. I would also imagine, though, that Advent contained a great deal of uncertainty for the people who experienced it the first time around. 

Mary, having been visited by an angel, knew she was carrying a precious and important child. She was told this child would go on to rule an everlasting kingdom. But she still had to wait. For nine-ish months, we might guess, Mary waited for Jesus to be born. She had to wait for room in the inn -- which turned out to be room in a stable. Mary and Joseph in all likelihood had to wait through the judgement of others -- those that would have questioned Mary’s pregnancy since she and Joseph were not yet married. They had to wait for Jesus to grow up and grow into his role as the Messiah. (After all, Jesus was a young adult before he began the bulk of what we read about earthly ministry.) Mary and Joseph and Jesus’ followers had to wait while he was hanging on the cross, and they had to wait for his resurrection. And according to Matthew we must wait for Christ’s return. 

To experience each of these moments in Jesus’ life must have involved an incredible amount of uncertainty. I would venture a guess that the words of certain uncertainty we find in Matthew fit well into much of Christ’s journey on earth. “You do not know.” 

The trick here, I think, is to become comfortable not knowing. To be okay waiting. Author Barbara Brown Taylor has a book coming out next year called Learning to Walk In the Dark, and I had the good fortune to hear her speak on the topic earlier this Fall over at Emory. She didn’t so much address the dark as specifically tragic events in life, but more so the times when we just aren’t sure what’s next. The times when, maybe, you can see a hand a couple inches in front of your face, but not much further than that. In that space we need to learn to be more comfortable. It’s no easy task, but instead of rushing to find the nearest flashlight, maybe it could do us some good to be okay taking a few deep breaths in the dark. After all, to Abraham, stars were a sign from God of his many descendants, and to the Magi a star was the compass by which they found Jesus. You can’t see stars unless you stand still in the dark and take a second to look up.

Waiting is not an unusual thing in Jesus’ story. But Advent is when it all starts. Advent is the waiting game. The one that sets in to motion all of the other waiting games to come. And I want to make sure to mention that I don’t use the expression “it’s a waiting game” to trivialize these events, at all. I use it because games require action.

Here’s the thing. Waiting, especially in this case, is not the same thing as sitting still. In this morning’s text Jesus paints a picture of what it might be like when he returns. During this waiting for Jesus’ coming, there are workers in the field and women grinding meal. The idea isn’t, I don’t think, to say “you don’t know when Jesus is coming, so sit still and wait.” 

Uncertainty abounds, but as Matthew says: “you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.” So more likely it’s “You don’t know. Wait. But be ready.”

So what does it mean to take part in this active waiting? What does it mean to be ready. It might be easier to first guess what being ready is not. 

I saw a picture of a bumper sticker once that read “Jesus is coming! Look busy!” I suspect this phrase was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but either way I don’t think simply busy work is quite what this waiting should be. I’m also pretty sure that it doesn’t involve rushing straight on to Christmas. 

What I think waiting is is making time to sit in the dark. Maybe not always the darkness of painful experiences, although those are very much a reality for some, but the also sitting in the darkness of uncertainty. Because it is in this darkness that we’ll eventually see the star of Christ, lighting the way. While we wait in the dark we can be watchful, always looking.

And while we wait, we will prepare. 

Some of you who come to Sunday school may remember a few weeks ago, when we talked about the Passover and the Israelites’ subsequent Exodus from Egypt. In case you’ve forgotten, and those of you who weren’t there, we talked and read about the time leading up to the Exodus -- the time the Israelites spent waiting, and preparing, to leave Egypt. The Israelites received instructions on how to protect their families during what we now call the Passover -- by spreading sheeps’ blood on their doorposts, the angel of Lord would know to go past their houses. They also received instructions on how to eat the Seder meal that is still observed by many Jewish communities. Here’s part of these instructions, in the Lord’s words to Moses: “This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly. This is the passover of the Lord.” Sandals on feet and staffs in hands -- they’re supposed to be ready to go. Although the Israelites were waiting -- for the angel of the Lord to pass, for their eventual journey out of Egypt -- there were things they needed to do to get ready. To be ready, at a moment’s notice. I don’t think many people would sit around with shoes on and a walking stick in hand, if they weren’t expecting something to happen. 

Friends, something is about to happen. Now Advent is not the Exodus. Our waiting to celebrate the birth of Jesus is not the same as a people preparing to leave captivity and a country they had called home for quite some time. However, we too, like the Israelites, are called to be watchful and ready. 

This season of Advent that we enter today requires some preparation. Waiting requires some preparation. And so we light candles and we will hang greens. Probably most of us will prepare our living spaces in addition to our worship spaces. And through this preparation our waiting can, in turn prepare our hearts for the celebration of the birth of our Lord. 

Waiting is confusing. Waiting is intriguing and exciting and frustrating. Waiting is hard. Waiting is holy.

Advent is bigger than four weeks in December. Advent is more than lighting candles and hanging greens. 

Waiting for Jesus to be born means waiting for everything that Christ came to do. 

So as we enter this season of preparation, let us remember to be awake, to be watchful, and to be ready. 

Amen.

A Knitter's Church

Hello friends! 

This year I'm working part time as the Student Pastor at Oglethorpe Presbyterian Church, about 30 minutes down the road from school. Today I praught* my first sermon at OPC. Knitting, New Orleans, and Mr. Rogers make appearances. If it suits your fancy, keep scrolling to check it out. If you'd rather listen, you can do that here.

Love, Allison.

* If teach = taught, preach = praught! This new vocab word is brought to you by a good friend/fellow seminarian. 

(You can blame preaching class at CTS for my
sketchbook-and-colored-pencils sermon prep habits.)

^{Ephesians 2:17-22, 4: 15-16}

¹⁷So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near; ¹⁸for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father. ¹⁹So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, ²⁰built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. ²¹In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; ²²in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. ¹⁵But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, ¹⁶from whom the whole body, joined and knitted together by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love.

***

The church I want us to think about today is Oglethorpe, but it isn’t exactly the painted white brick exterior, the pews you’re sitting on, or our cheerfully colored preschool hallways. This morning’s reading from Ephesians may not be talking about our specific Brookhaven church, or even any tangible brick-and-mortar structure. But that doesn’t mean it’s completely lacking in language about buildings.  For example, we hear from Paul that the church is “built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus as the cornerstone.” 

 These days some physical cornerstones are more ceremonial than structural, taking the form of a large commemorative stone on the corner of a building, often marking the year in which the building was constructed. More importantly, the cornerstone is the point from which the rest of the building is oriented. Each wall of the structure is ultimately situated according to the cornerstone.  

So the greater Church can rely on Christ the cornerstone, who aligns the rest of our foundation, made up of the apostles and prophets, according to Paul. And it is through their teachings that we, the brick-and-mortar members, begin to be “built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God.”

As Paul’s letter to the church in Ephesus continues, it gets more specific about the body that is this dwelling place for God, and the words start to sound more like we’d find them in an anatomy lesson than in class on construction. Not only is Christ this dwelling place’s cornerstone, he is the head, “from whom the whole body is joined and knit together by every ligament with which it is equipped.” A head...a body...and ligaments...the church is alive. Christ the cornerstone, and the rest of the apostles and prophets, serve as the foundation of this living, breathing, growing body of Christ that is the church. 

I don’t exactly know the science behind a body being knit together by ligaments, as Ephesians says we are if Christ is the head. But I do know that when I first read that sentence in the Scripture for today, I couldn’t help but think of another kind of knitting. My kind of knitting involves a ball of yarn. Now I should also confess to you that when I say “my kind of knitting,” I mean I would consider myself a beginner, at best. I have a few scarves under my belt, a dishcloth or two, and last Christmas break I graduated to making a hat (but my mom had to come to my knitting rescue at the end of that project). My novice status aside, here is what I know to be true about knitting. It usually requires at least a little guidance. It always requires patience. It also helps if you’re a naturally fidgety person. Although I don’t know that fidgeting is a requirement of the body of Christ, I can say from personal experience that it probably happens from time to time. Finally, in the world of knitting, as my Mom has informed me: “a real knitter never ties a knot.” This excludes the slip knot that is often used at the very beginning of a project, but either way, the point isn’t to tie the yarn so tightly together that there is no possible way it will ever move. Of course you hope your new scarf or hat or sock stays together. And it probably does! But the reason for that isn’t knots. When it comes down to it, knitting is really a series of fancy loops. Each time the needles are moved, the yarn makes one loop, slips through another, and becomes an anchor of sorts for yet another future loop, as each part of the yarn  gently and flexibly supports another in its place. Knots are even avoided when a new ball of yarn is brought into a project in progress. The new piece of yarn is held next to the old, makes its first loop and is woven into the former and future loops. So, these loops are where our work comes in. Jesus is a knitter in this hat or scarf or dishcloth of a church. He’s the beginning of our series of loops, ultimately their anchor. But we too, are knitters of the body of Christ. 

Some of you may be familiar with the prayer shawl ministry that is present in many congregations. The ministry’s website describes their project like this: “Compassion and the love of knitting [or] crocheting have been combined into a prayerful ministry and spiritual practice which reaches out to those in need of comfort and solace, as well as in celebration and joy. Many blessings are prayed into every stitch. Whether they are called Prayer Shawls, Comfort Shawls, Peace Shawls, or Mantles, etc., the shawl maker begins with prayers and blessings for the recipient. The intentions are continued throughout the creation of the shawl. Upon completion, a final blessing is offered before the shawl is sent on its way.”

 The page goes on to say that sometimes recipients will go on to make shawls for others, as God’s comfort spreads throughout the community. 

One more thing I’ll mention, about knitting. It is sometimes very. tedious. Once you get the hang of the basic moves, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, especially for the fidgeters among us, including myself. But however familiar the moves, knitting still requires care and attention. And the careful nature of crafting these loops means that every inch of that yarn, however briefly, has been touched by the knitter. 

And a certain balance of tension must be maintained in the yarn, to successfully complete a project. A knitter must keep the yarn pulled tightly enough to guide it into place. But also essential is that the yarn has some room to move. Just as ligaments help our bodies bend and stretch, flexibility is key in knitting.

So to truly live into our places in the church as the body of Christ -- whether we are held together as ligaments or as pieces of yarn -- we have to allow ourselves to be knitted, and we need to do some knitting ourselves. And just as Christ is the cornerstone of our foundation, he can be the first loop of yarn -- or the slip knot -- that holds the rest of us in place. Whether you grew up in this church, whether you’ve been here for a few years or a few weeks, or whether you are visiting today for the first time, Christ holds us together as one body, as the first loop and as the foundation for the gift that is this community. This community of faith is one that includes Oglethorpe, of course, but also one that goes beyond it.

The year before I started seminary at Columbia, I spent a year living in New Orleans with the Presbyterian Church (USA)’s Young Adult Volunteer program. Not only did my fellow volunteers and I become knit together, we were woven into the fabric of the cities in which we served. That year living in community with other volunteers challenged me and helped me grow in countless ways, but one thing of the clearest memories I have took place in my very first week there. My housemates and I, along with some volunteers from another program, were on a tour of the city. We saw some of the usual sites, and we got to know some new neighborhoods. We stood on the levee looking over the Lower Ninth Ward. What is most memorable about that day, however, is a comment that our tour guide made, at the end of the tour. While we were debriefing the things we’d experienced that day, our guide shared some of her thoughts on the years following Hurricane Katrina. As she painted a picture of the city’s recovery process which included the gradual departure of the various forms of aid, and the media’s movement on to the next pieces of breaking news. But she made one thing clear. She said: “The church never forgot us.” As members of the church, we care for all the parts of our knitted body.

Our guide wasn’t just talking about the specific group of faith-based volunteers that was standing in front of her, nor specifically about the Presbyterian Church. The church that remembered New Orleans is a mosaic of helpers spread far and wide, from a vast array different traditions and geographical locations. One of my favorite Presbyterians, Mr. Rogers, once said: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers, so many caring people in this world.” 

These words from Mr. Rogers have more to do with knitting than the fact that he wore a lot of sweaters. New Orleans is part of this knitted, global church, and the helpers that arrived after that hurricane -- and that still arrive today -- were and are proof of this connected church. 

The other thing about most knitted garments? They’re washable. Although New Orleans faced devastation in the wake of Katrina’s floods, and its people were scattered across the country, small rays of hope came in the form of helpers from faith communities across the country. Slowly but surely the helpers began to knit back together the stretched loops of New Orleans.

It is through this caring -- both for people in our own congregation and for people outside of it -- that we can, as Ephesians puts it, build ourselves up in love.  So, as we live out the coming week together let us remember that we are built on Christ’s sure foundation. And that as we continually knit each other together with intention and openness -- a thoughtful, creative, sometimes tedious process -- this community of faith will continue to build and be built up in love.

Amen.